


Don't Forget Your I.D.

by LivefromG25



Series: Plane it Safe [4]
Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: M/M, Masturbation, Mile High Club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 12:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16534262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LivefromG25/pseuds/LivefromG25
Summary: Armie is going solo in more ways than one on this high flying adventure.





	Don't Forget Your I.D.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aislingeach_21](https://archiveofourown.org/users/aislingeach_21/gifts).



> The i.d. photoshoot - we are all Armie.  
> Set in the Plane It Safe universe but isn't part of a challenge. More just a rush of inspiration bolstered on by the wonderful excitement of post-HFA fandom.  
> This has not been beta'd, this was written in one go, all mistakes are my own. 
> 
> Picture use in memoriam - RIP *+se+*
> 
> Gifted to my gal to wish her well and good luck x

Private jet life is way more ‘me’. I don’t want to sound like a completely pretentious asshole but… fuck it, I am a completely pretentious asshole.

I just don’t understand people who have the means to fly private and yet choose to go commercial. For one, there isn’t enough leg room (okay, maybe that is just _my_ problem) and two, no-one is cooking you top dollar steak like the one I have just polished off.

Oh, and three, the bathrooms are way too small to have any kind of good sex, but that is by the by.

I ignore the fact I was more than happy to do it last year, fully content to shatter my kneecaps if it meant squeezing in beside Timothee. I mean, that's irrelevant. The amount of flying we did it just made good business sense to go commercial. Not that I wouldn’t have appreciated private flights with actual beds...

Almost as if I have summoned his name with the thought, Nick turns in his seat across the aisle to look at me.

“Yo, dude, I see your boy is breaking the internet again.”

Feigning disinterest, I use a soft roll to mop up the last of the red wine jus. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah, new interview and photoshoot. Girls are gonna be creamin’ for days”,

I frown and keep my eyes down. In another life, I would have joined in this conversation with matching laddish bravado, proud of Timothee for having such an effect on women, eliciting belly laughs from the boys with borderline chauvinistic comments about his legions of female fans.  
But I don’t belong in that life anymore. Instead of bro’ pride, I am awash with a jealousy that is akin to rage. I can feel my skin prickling, my face heating up. I don’t want their eyes on him, he belongs to me.

Not that I can  _say_ any of this, of course. As far as anyone else knows we are, after all, _just friends_. I have never told a soul about what goes on between us or how I feel about him. Not even Nick and he is my best friend... One of... Aside from Timothee.

So I tamper my emotions and aim for as much nonchalance as I can muster. I fill my mouth with bread to mask any tremor in my voice.

“How do _you_ know about it?”

Nick throws his phone gently onto my table.

“WiFi, dumbass,”

As it skids to a halt next to my plate, I take a look at the picture and for a second don’t even recognise who I am looking at.

Thinking it is some sort of advert, I take in the greased up hair, smouldering serious expression with one eye seductively closed, earrings. Earrings for fuck sake. However, when my vision finally connects with that open, golden gaze, the bread just about chokes me.

_Timothee._

__

Let me tell you this for free. It doesn’t matter how big your plane is, how much leg room you have, how much space there is around you, have someone throw the sexiest picture you’ve ever seen of the person you are categorically _not supposed to fancy_ right in front of your eyeballs and see how fast your entire world shrinks to nothing but blackness and the beat of your own heart.

I have no idea what my face is doing but I pray to fucking God that if I am colouring in any way, it can simply be put down to near death by breadroll.

Coughing and spluttering for good measure and taking a hefty sip of wine - “God, went down the wrong way” - I pick up Nicks phone for closer inspection. I swipe left as quickly as possible, hoping that the first picture was nothing but a fluke.

Suddenly the plane dips, like we have hit heavy turbulence. My body is jolted left and right, the phone in my hand trembling. My stomach lurches and my other hand instinctively reaches out to steady myself against the chair in front of me.

It takes me a second to realise that the plane…. Well, the plane _hasn’t_ moved. It was my own fucking world tilting on its axis. I glance up at Nick who is looking at me like I have suddenly sprouted twenty heads. Fuck.

I meekly return my gaze to the phone screen now that my vision has restored itself. Well. I think we can safely say I have sprouted at least one extra head. Swiping left? Yeah, I _really_ shouldn’t have done that.

Face tilted at an angle, slight frown line drawing his eyebrows together, lips slightly pouted and eyes cast down… I _know_ this expression. Granted, I don’t usually see it from straight on like this - difficult to do when you’re on your knees - but I would know that look anywhere.

I am going to fucking kill him.

“Mmm, yeah. Nice. I presume there was an interview?” Trying hard to play it cool I hand Nick’s phone back to him without swiping again. I’m a quick study.

Nick hums a yes. “Nothing fresh in it we don’t already know, though he did only mention you once which, lets face it, is a feat worth putting in the record books”

I pull a face at him and give him the finger. “All good, I hope?”

“Yup, credits you again for the “I love you” scene.”

Suddenly things click into place. I remember Tim talking to me about this interview, one of our many late night phone calls. He’d broached the subject much in the way you’d bring up asking your parents how to buy condoms.

_________

_“Um, Armie, so I, um, I had to choose someone to, um, to interview me for a magazine and, um, well I kinda asked someone today.”_

_“Okay? Cool? Why the hesitation? Who did you ask? It wasn’t my mom, was it? Not sure that’s an audience grabber”_

_“Ha! No, it's not your mom. Um, I asked Ha-, I um, I mean, err, I am, I asked Harry Styles? You know just because we’re like close in age and like we are both kinda straddling that whole art and fashion thing and like its kinda genius if you think about it, because it's so mutually beneficial and we have such a cross audience and like, he seems such a nice person and -”_

_“Tim, slow down, take a breath.”_

_“Sorry! Sorry. I just- I didn’t, don’t, I don’t want you to be like mad or upset or something that I didn’t ask you. You know I would have it’s just… you know, I didn’t want people to think I was obsessed with you or something even though I clearly am, and I just… well, I’d rather we kept questions between us for the bedroom and not some sort of carcass for the media vultures to feast on. Is that- is that okay? Are you mad? I mean, I’m still gonna talk_ about _you…”_

_“No, Tim of course I am not mad. That's-, it’s cool. Genuinely. You make some good points, it should be great for you. How could I be mad?”_

_“Promise?”_

_“Promise”._

 _________

 

Of course I was fucking mad. Not at Tim - never at Tim - but just at the entire fucking situation. That he felt he couldn’t ask me even if he wanted to. Does his rationale make sense? Of course it does, didn’t mean I had to like it though.

I sigh and give a chin-up of acknowledgement to Nick who takes that as his cue that I have lost interest in the conversation. The thought of the interview has put a bit of a dampener on my mood. I shift in my seat and absent mindedly play with the ring on my finger. At least I am not hard anymore.

Filled with temporary confidence of the fact, I slide my own phone out of my pocket. I’d put it on aeroplane mode an hour before we’d even set off, just needing that bit of disconnection. Seems I’d been right to given that the world was about to implode.

I toy with the idea of turning on the WiFi and just reading the article to get it out of my system. What’s the worst I could read? The pair of them mutually declaring their love for each other? Hardly. I wish I could pinpoint my jealousy. I look at my own life and I realise that Tim has way more reason to be worried about me than I do about him. He has never been anything other than open and honest about what he wants and, more specifically, what he wants from me. I, on the other hand…

I decide to just bite the bullet and I switch off aeroplane mode. Within seconds my phone is jamming with numerous notifications, reminders, text messages. I skim all of them, eyes peeled for one name only. Nothing.

Pulling up the search bar, I type in both of their names. The act itself disgusts me and I delete the second. I am pretty sure there will be enough hits on Timothee alone to bring the article right up.

Sure enough it does and, despite my earlier warnings to myself, I click on the link.

The first picture that loads almost sends me into cardiac arrest. A black and white shot of Timothee straight up eye fucking the camera. I am rock hard in an instant and I know in that moment there is not a hope in hell of me _reading_ anything.

I slip my phone back into my pocket - hard to do now my jeans are suddenly three sizes too small - and I try to get up as slowly as calmly as I possibly can. As I subtly adjust myself, trapping my cock in my waistband like a 15year old school boy on a field trip bus, I ignore Nick as he turns back around to me, a curious expression on his face. What? A guy is allowed to go to the bathroom on his own fucking plane, is he not? _Jesus_.

As has become somewhat custom, I painfully shuffle my way to the bathroom trying desperately to clear my mind - _“Meet me there in twenty seconds”, “Dude, I’ve a fear boner”, “Armiiieeee…”_ \- before I straight up blow my load all over this mother fucking aisle.

I open the bathroom and barely have the door closed behind me before I am fumbling with my belt buckle with one hand, the other clinging to my phone for dear life, urgently thumbing its way through my passcode to pull the pictures back up on screen.

There it is again. The single most seductive shot I have ever seen of him. I must write to this photographer, thank him. Request that Timothee only works with him from now on. Tucking my t-shirt up, I wrap my hand around my newly freed cock and sigh in instant relief. Actually, this is quite the perilous situation to be in over a photoshoot. Perhaps I should request he only takes private ones…

Anyway, I have more important things to consider right now such as whether to continue on with this photo or do a swipe or two and see what else is in store. Before I can make up my mind, my legs are buckling from under me as my hand makes the decision for me, my thumb massaging through the - copious amounts of - precome beading on the head of my cock. Right, fine, I will go with this picture but only because I already know myself and knowing I have a store of material I haven't even seen yet will get me through the rest of this day.

I position my phone against the sink, angling it so that it looks like he is looking directly at me. I am a masochist, it would seem, but the pain is fucking beautiful. Long, punishing strokes have me right on the edge in no time as I take in his slightly parted lips, the smattering of freckles across the bridge of his delicate little nose, _the fucking earring._

I grip the side of the sink and drop my head forward as I near my release. The sound of my hand against my own, damp, skin echos around me and I imagine it is him, I imagine that - like all of the other times before now - I am tucked in this cubicle with Timothee. I picture my cock as his, working him furiously towards a state of bliss, anything for him, anything.

I groan deeply, my stomach muscles contracting as the peak edges closer, I raise my eyes to the picture once more and I am floored by his expression. At first glance one could think it was dominant. I am sure all of the young girls will. His take me to bed eyes. But what they won’t see is, hidden in that curve of his posture, is his gift to you. He’s all yours. Those soft lips open because they are inviting you in; tongue as you kiss him, fingers before you pleasure him, your cock. _Daring you to desire him._ My _Elio,_

It is on that thought that I finally let go with a cry, expelling all over my own hand and onto the countertop, narrowly avoiding my phone. My legs buckle further and I throw my head back in drained relief, surprising myself with the bark of a laugh.

He isn’t even _on_ the plane and Timothee _still_ has me a firm member of the mile high club.

I wipe my hand across my stomach, careful not to smear the remnants of my exertions. I gingerly pick up my phone and with a last lust clouded stare at the photo, I switch to camera.  
I line up the perfect shot, my cock still semi hard, resting against the counter, splatterings of come like an artform around it. Jesus, if anyone on this flight could see me now… If Nick knew what I was doing… I can’t even picture it.

I put on a flattering filter and add some text, my hands still shaky in the aftermath.

“Guess who just saw your photos?” I grin to myself and quickly press send. I throw my phone down and make eye contact with myself in the mirror. I look fucked. Laughing, I run my hands through my hair and set about cleaning myself up. When Timo-, wait. No. No, no, no, no, no….

It hits me suddenly that I don’t remember just seeing Timothee’s name. On some kind of post sex autopilot I have just sent that picture and I _don’t fucking remember_ seeing Timothee’s name.

My mind is racing faster than my fingers as I grab at my phone and click random icons trying to find what I am looking for, what I was thinking of. In my haste I am in twitter, the music player, the fucking calculator (wouldn’t even know where to find that if I was looking) before landing into the messaging app.

Oh. Holy. Mother. Of. Fuck.

I don’t remember seeing Timothee’s name because I didn’t fucking send it to Timothee. I. Didn’t. Send. That. Picture. Of. My. Spent. Fucking. Cock. To. Timothee.

I stagger backwards and sit on the closed toilet lid. I stare at my phone as if, miraculously, despite how technology works, staring could somehow erase a message not only from your phone but also that of another person and, preferably, their mind as well.

Right there in front of me, clear as a summers day, is my cock in all its glory, tucked safely underneath the last message I received, the last name that I thought of.

“Hey Armie, have your passport. Only you would forget i.d. - you're an idiot. See you shortly.”

I stare at the message for what feels like hours but it can only have been minutes before the sweet torture of the read notification makes an appearance. Disbelief gives way to acceptance quicker than I thought it might.

Fuck it, I guess Nick knows _now_.


End file.
